


Off Balance

by Exorin



Series: Like Father, Like Son [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 Speak of the Devil, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28895388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exorin/pseuds/Exorin
Summary: Once upon a time, he could wait until he was home before the need struck.Or: Malcolm doesn't make it very far before he's got a hand shoved down his pants.*Spoilers for s02e02: Speak of The Devil
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Himself, Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Series: Like Father, Like Son [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120286
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47





	Off Balance

**Author's Note:**

> Joins the PSon fandom like: I hope you like smut with absolutely no plot, because that's all I can offer. 
> 
> Huge shout-out to [@Pond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121) who talked about Prodigal Son enough on Twitter that I was like: _fuckme, that sounds like everything I love in one show._ And then also edited this 1k of smut so that I could kick in the door to this fandom with it.

Malcolm trembles as he walks the short hallway between his father’s cell—if you could call it that—and the outer security door that only opens once the first one is sealed, locking The Surgeon safely behind it. 

Behind him. 

_“I can lock you up. Tune you out.”_

The thud of his heart slams up against his ribcage and his breath builds heavy in the back of his throat, threatening to come out as a shaky exhale. He does everything he can to swallow it down. 

Cracks form in Malcolm’s composure, the adrenaline of standing up to his father spiking through his veins mixed with the infuriating knowledge that it was a lie—like he could ever truly stop coming to Claremont. 

_“I can even leave you behind.”_

Like he could lock up that part of himself, the one that he’s just starting to understand.

The side of himself that he catches in his reflection sometimes, narrow-eyed and vicious. The one that smiles at the sight of blood, of carnage and gore, and sends his own blood flooding down to fill out his cock when he’s toeing up close to that thin red line that separates him and his father.

He knows Claremont like the back of his hand, knows the turns of each of the hallways and where to take a moment to compose himself where no one will look. 

After all, he’s been doing this for _years._

He leans his forehead against the cool of the metal door, eyes closing as his hands find his belt and slide the smooth leather from the clasps.

Thumbing open the button on his slacks he remembers the hitch in his father’s breath, the way his father—usually so concise and composed—stumbled over his words. 

He did that. He threw Martin Whitly off balance. 

Malcolm is already hard when he slips his hand down into his pants and curls his fingers around the weight of himself. He curses, low and under his breath, dragging his palm over the heat of his cock and tilting his hips up against the pressure. Once upon a time, he could wait until he was home before the need struck.

It’s not enough—too little friction, not nearly wet enough, but he can’t help jerking up against his fingertips a few more times before he’s pulling his hand free and bringing it up to his mouth. He drags his tongue over his palm, presses the spit flooding his mouth against his skin until he’s damp and slick with it. 

He uses his other hand and tucks his thumb under the waistband of his pants, tugging them down over his hips and pressing his teeth down against his lower lip to keep from hissing in relief when his cock slips free from the confines of his slacks. 

It had felt so good, stepping close to the line and holding his father in place with his words; threatening to leave, to walk away. That rush of adrenaline, that rush of blood pumping through his body. The closeness of his father setting off all of his fight or flight tendencies. 

He gets that same rush now, hidden in a storage closet less than a heartbeat away from where his father is locked behind two closed doors—trapped there, waiting for whenever he chooses to go back. His father has no idea he’s still in the building with his spit-soaked hand circling around the weight of his hard cock. That first jerk of his hips—the tightness, the pressure of his fist—make his knees weak.

He swallows down the moan growing at the back of his throat and squeezes his eyes shut, remembering that moment, reliving his father’s hitched breath and the way his pupils dilated just enough to reveal the panic there. His cock throbs up against his palm, thick and heavy. 

Malcolm braces his other arm against the door to bury his face into the curve of his inner elbow and press his opened mouth against the skin there, biting down to quiet the sound of his own quickening breath.

He slides his circled hand back and looks down to watch the thick head of his cock emerge from under the smooth, protective layer of his foreskin; his tip leaks wetly and makes the slide forward _oh so good._

He flashes back to the yard, to his earlier walk about with his father and the casual mention of Martin’s attempt at the birds and the bees talk when he was still a child; he hadn’t thought about it in years. It had been the first time that he’d realized that he was, in one way fundamentally different from his father—that Martin had made the decision to leave him unchanged and uncut, insisting that his body was pristine.

That he had been made perfect. _Immaculate._

A shudder runs through his body, making his skin feel charged and sensitive all over. He curses again, muffling the swear against his arm before digging his teeth down hard enough that he can feel his canines imprinting his flesh. Marks that will fade before he’s outside again. 

He tugs his fist forward and holds himself still, canting his hips forward to do all the work—quick little thrusts to build the pressure already lighting up along his spine and curling up tight and low in his belly. 

Shifting his hand again he drags the pad of his thumb over the exposed, sensitive head and lets the build up of his precome coat it before smearing that hot, wet, heat down the long length of his cock. His thighs shake from the effort of keeping his own hips from thrusting forward, from stopping himself from giving in and coming all over his fingers. It’s too simple this way.

He needs something else. Something more. 

Malcolm squeezes the base of his cock when his circled fist travels back down again and he groans, closing his eyes, his breath getting hitched and stuck somewhere near the back of his throat. 

He thinks back to the cell, thinks back to before his words, before the meaningless threats, to when his father spoke so softly—hesitant and nervous and honest. To those feelings of being needed, being completely and utterly understood. 

_“You can tell me anything, my son.”_

His cock throbs under the pressure of his fingers, his red, damp head dripping wet and desperate. His knees buckle, hips jerking forward and he just barely manages to smother the sound of his shout—raw and loud—against his arm. 

_“Come on, unburden yourself.”_

He comes over his fist, soaking his fingers. His whole body shakes, his throat hoarse and dry from trying to hold back all the sounds buried in his chest and he knows that he’ll never truly be free from his father. 

Because his father will always be a part of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Want some more of this no plot smut/have an sexy thought that won't leave your brain and need someone to just type out a few thousand words of porn? Hit me up on Tumblr at [ex0rin](http://ex0rin.tumblr.com)


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